the waves
unseen
unplayed strings

all the things
we have
forgotten

what the stars really mean
the strange friendship
between the Shade and the Light

the whispers of water
the Past before the past
the Song before the birds

flowerless ferns
remember
everything

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Parque Terra Nostra (São Miguel) © 2019– F.G.M.

children of Icarus
we are all flying to the Sun
but even pure gold melts down

bodies made of wax
each of us shall pass away
and reduced to ashes of light

we’ll be like tiny Summer traces
words of Love
still unsaid

© Frédéric Georges Martin

To bathe naked
in the river of Time.
To forget.
To relearn.
To walk to the edge of Hell.
To dream about Heaven
about love
and stars.

To be born again,
clothed in Light.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Dans la rivière du temps,
se baigner nu.
Oublier, réapprendre.
En Enfer
presque descendre
mais du Ciel
d’Amour et d’étoiles
toujours rêver.

Et renaître,
habillé de lumière.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Raindrops are God’s tears,
rainbows are Heaven’s doors
and I strongly believe
clouds are floating mountains.

I love to blow the dandelion flower.
I always do as I please
and often hurt my knees
and my heart.

But I don’t really mind.
I’m proud to tell everybody
I never grow up
and never will.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Cloud
(Arkhip Kuindzhi)

The evening breeze oscillates
between sadness and wisdom.

White ships move slowly.
The Moon shines brightly.

No matter if we built
a castle in the sky.

We had to learn
about dreams and Time.

When you look at the starry sky,
every moment lasts forever.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

I would like to write a poem
my mind said.
I have no inspiration
my heart whispered.
Shut up!
my soul shouted.

Birds are singing
the blue Songs of Spring
Skies are bigger
and bigger
Skies are closer
and closer.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Je voudrais écrire un poème
dit mon esprit.
Je n’ai pas d’inspiration
soupira mon cœur.
Silence !
cria mon âme.

Voici que les oiseaux chantent
les chants bleus du Printemps
les cieux
sont de plus en plus grands
les cieux
sont de plus en plus proches.

© Frédéric Georges Martin